


Almost Unbearable

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, AU, romance, angst, fluff. Much time has passed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Unbearable

His silver-handled cane hooked over the iron railing, Red stares down from the balcony into the small, concealed garden, hedged about and arbor-lined, shaded by cypress trees that predate the villa. It's not visible from any other room in the tall stone structure. 

Liz sits at the metal table, having coffee with a younger man. Red can't see his face, but he has thick, glossy black hair. He's clearly an Italian, from the cut of his slacks and the polish of his loafers, to the way he lounges back in his chair as they speak. They're drinking coffee and as Red squints down, wishing he were wearing his sunglasses, Liz takes the man's hand across the table and gives it a long squeeze.

Red steps back from the railing, takes his cane and hobbles with determination back through her office and dressing room, past her bathroom, back down the narrow hall to their shared bedroom. 

It's a wide, luxurious room with a terrace looking down the cliffs to the blue expanse of the Adriatic beyond. The bed is made on her side, turned down on his.

For once he's completed his morning routine early, the physical therapy, massages, water exercises necessary to keep his arthritis at bay. So he went looking for her, never expecting what he found.

No, that's not really true.

Red already knows this man's face. His town car passed by an outdoor cafe on an unanticipated visit to a friend in hospital in Manhattan six months earlier, and he saw Liz at lunch with him. On a day she claimed she had some shopping to complete. She did come home laden with bags marked with the names of her favorite designers, he remembers that.

Two months ago his accountant alerted him privately to some sizable transfers of funds.

Not from his carefully monitored and managed investments; from the money Red placed in her name more than twenty years ago, when she left the FBI for the life he offered her.

Red sits on the edge of the bed and tries to compose his thoughts.

She's still a beautiful woman, active and strong, dressed with the casual elegance his wealth commands. She swims a mile every morning.

He still dresses with the same care, an elegant gentleman, but at 70, unlike her well-preserved 50, he can't pass for middle-aged.

His arthritis is getting worse, not better. They've curtailed their travels, trips to certain destinations only recently made possible by the begrudging pardon Red received from the US authorities. There's a new clinical trial that might help, but Red can't risk staying in the same place for that long, pardon or no pardon.

He only feels safe here at the villa, or in their jet.

Liz seems exactly the same towards him, if anything a little more affectionate. They have such a comfortable routine after two decades, time spent apart and together each day, but always a morning embrace, her kiss before his afternoon siesta, a shared drink before dinner. Every possible night in the same bed, waking together, even after all this time.

He used to have nightmares. He can barely remember them, any longer. Will they return if she leaves him?

Red tries to remind himself that he tested her almost five years before. After the first time he fell, and broke two ribs, rather than bouncing right up again, on a mountain hike that turned into a nightmare evacuation. When he felt old, and fragile, and nothing in his world made any sense.

Through a judicious mixture of bribery and blackmail, he hired one of her favorite male movie stars to encounter her in the bar of her Parisian hotel when she traveled there while Red recuperated to shop the new spring collections.

The man is gorgeous, charming, utterly without morals. Red still has the video, has watched it more often than he should. It's one of the few secrets he still keeps from her.

Liz smiles, converses, even dines with the movie star. But when he invites her up to his room, she turns him down flat. Touching her rings as she informs him she loves her husband, and his very flattering attention is no match for the man who holds her heart.

Red always zooms in the video at the end, past the actor's shocked expression, to Liz with the ring of truth in her voice, the love in her eyes.

It was the only time he ever spied on her. He swore to himself it would never happen again. But waiting for the blow to fall, like kneeling with a gun to the back of his head, is almost unbearable.

***  
Dembe arrives a week later, bringing stories, gifts, and photographs of his new grandson.

After a lavish dinner, he and Red sit on Red's balcony, smoking cigars. Liz has invited him to swim with her in the morning, before retreating to her office.

"This isn't just a social visit," says Dembe finally.

Red shakes his head.

"Lizzie has a secret. I want you to discover what it is, and tell me."

Dembe gives him a reproving frown.

"She's your wife, Raymond - why don't you just ask her?"

Red looks down at the glowing tip of his cigar. Because he's afraid she'll lie? Because he's more afraid that she'll tell him the truth?

"I don't have a name or a photograph," he says at last. "He was here a week ago, he's around forty, northern Italian, and he drives a Porsche."

"What color?" asks Dembe.

Red shrugs. "I didn't see it, and the security camera recordings were scrubbed. Late model, from the sound of the engine."

Dembe shakes his head, looks out at the beauty of the rolling countryside below, the swell of the vineyards mysterious in the dusk.

"You are wrong about this," he says, his voice going soft. "Raymond, how can you even be concerned?"

So Red tells him.

And then they smoke together for a long time, in silence.

***

Liz dismisses her personal maid and sits for a moment at her dressing room table, studying her face in her make-up mirror. So worried, in contrast to her new silk nightgown, deep blue with lace dyed to match. She forces a smile, thinks of Red waiting for her in bed next door, and her smile becomes more genuine.

He'll like this nightgown. Hopefully enough to ignore his arthritis. Dembe's visit has given them both the chance to laugh again at the old stories of their early days together.

Next time Dembe will bring his family with him.

Liz rises and makes her way down the hall to their bedroom. She pushes the door open just a crack, and peers in to see if Red is prepared for her arrival.

He's sitting up in bed against a nest of pillows, reading glasses low on his nose, but the book is open in his lap, and his head is slumped to one side, his mouth slightly open in a gentle snore.

Liz watches him sleep for a moment. His hair is pure white now, a little long, and the deep circles beneath his eyes, the bitter lines about his mouth, are tempered by the laugh lines creasing his face from their many years together. His hands are age spotted, the knuckles gnarled, but still so deft, so dependable.

She put her life in those hands, and for all the danger and darkness, the nights of near-despair, they came to this sunlit place of joy and peace, in the end.

Liz pulls the door shut silently, retreats a few steps, then walks heavily down the corridor, opens the door with bump and a loud twist of the handle.

"Afraid I would fall asleep?"

Red smiles over the top of his reading glasses at her. Gives a little whistle as he takes in her nightgown.

Liz turns in a circle, grinning, for his approval.

"It must be a strange life, designing nightgowns, " he muses, as she approaches the bed and slides in beside him. 

"And why is that?" Liz asks, leaning up on her elbow to watch him set his book and glasses aside on the nightstand.

Red gives her an approving smile as he reaches out to stroke her cheek, and she leans into his caress.

"Their goal is to design a garment people want to remove," he responds. 

***

Dembe towels himself off and collapses onto a lounge chair next to Liz.

"You are a demon in the water, Elizabeth," he tells her.

She smiles back at him in pure delight. She loves to race.

"What would you like to do today?" she asks him. "Red won't be free for lunch until almost one."

So many appointments. They wear him down, but he's not willing to accept any further limitations on his mobility.

"Will you take me for a drive?" he asks her, still panting slightly from the swim. "I understand you have a new Ferrari."

"I would love to," she exclaims. "Meet me out front in 30 minutes."

"What color is it?" asks Dembe as she stands and slings her towel over one shoulder.

"What do you think?" she responds.

***

Dembe glances sideways at Liz as she pulls out onto the autostrada after almost 30 minutes of weaving her way through the countryside, multiple gates, and then a tiny village where everyone stopped and waved as she passed.

"Now you'll really see something!" she exclaims.

The scenery is a blur as the big red car leaps forward, her gloved hands so steady on the wheel. He gives her a few minutes before leaning forward and pointing to the next exit.

She pulls over behind the Autogrill and shuts off the engine.

"What?" she asks him, not making any move to get out. "You haven't even asked to drive yet - something must be bothering you."

Dembe shrugs. When he decided to do this, it seemed so simple. But now, facing her wide blue gaze, he feels like a traitor. Or a fool.

"Is it about Red?" she asks, reaching out with one hand to give his knee a brief pat. Her driving gloves are fine leather, clearly made to her measure. "Something you want to ask me, out of his earshot?"

She's wearing gold today with her short cream dress, earrings, bracelets, a twist of a necklace that reminds him of barbed wire. And of course her wedding ring, wide and opulent, the edges just a little softened by so many years of constant wear.

Dembe regards her solemnly. He's always considered her a friend. This step might change that forever.

At his age, with his history, true friends are rare.

"He's very private about his health," she says. "And I don't keep secrets from him. If you ask me, you need to know that I'll tell him."

This is not the way Red wanted him to handle this. Not at all.

"But you do," he corrects her, leaning a little closer. He can smell her expensive perfume, and the scent of coffee on her breath, and a faint tinge of chlorine from the pool despite her morning shower.

Liz frowns at him.

"You think I keep secrets from him?"

Dembe nods, holding her gaze. He's never been as good as Red is at scenting a lie, but he knows this woman. Or at least he thought he did.

It sickens him when she blushes and looks away.

"Oh, I suppose you'll need to come and meet him," she says, turning the car back on. Dembe turns his face and stares out at the passing countryside as they fly back south towards the villa. He can't bring himself to speak, or ask any questions. He just can't.

***

Just before entering the small village they passed previously, Liz turns the car into a narrow, cypress lined driveway. It winds past fields and cottages, then up onto a low hill.

The large, white stucco walls and low buildings ringed with tiled arcades resemble an abandoned convent. There's even a cross in the front, the circle drive curving around it.

"OK, come on in, but let me explain who you are. He's very uncomfortable about being here, so close to the villa."

Dembe gives her an incredulous glance, but she's pulling off her driving gloves and doesn't notice.

She leads him into the central building, pushing open the tall, carved antique cypress doors without knocking, then leading him through several wide, dimly lit halls.

She pushes open the door to a large study, where a man sits reading at a table piled with books and periodicals.

"May I present Niccolo Ferrante? Dembe Zuma, one of my oldest friends."

The man at once rises, leaning over the desk towards Dembe with his right hand outstretched.

He's tall and slim, elegantly dressed in the latest Milan fashions. His thick hair is long and elaborately arranged over his high forehead.

Dembe blinks at him. His face is model-perfect, high cheekbones, skin tanned copper, blazing gold-brown eyes set in impossibly long black lashes.

Humor and intelligence, and such evident kindness in his gaze.

"I am so pleased to meet you," he says, grasping Dembe's hand. "I assume Elizabeth has finally become reconciled to discussing this with her husband?"

He gestures around the room.

Liz gives him a wide smile before sinking into a chair opposite him and gesturing to Dembe to follow suit. He does so, feeling completely dazed. She seems so matter of fact.

"I don't know how Dembe found out about us, but Red will need to know in the next month anyway. Since the regional trial is finally full?"

Dmbe looks from her excited face to the man opposite her, hoping his decades of standing poker-faced at Red's back are paying off. He feels excited and ashamed and terrified. All at once.

This man is a doctor. A researcher.

Liz has somehow arranged for the arthritis trial, the one Red told him about, to be replicated here in Italy.

***

"I should have told you myself."

Liz is lying with her head in Red's lap as he feeds her tiny bites of food from the olive wood platter at his side. He's sitting on the low, square, padded lounger on his terrace, with the sun sinking low in the distance, his long silk robe loosely belted at his waist.

"Yes, you should have," he responds, popping another grape from their own vineyard between her lips. His fingers are moving so much more freely now, the pain receding and almost forgotten.

She nips at his fingers, follows the bite with a comforting lick as he pretends to flinch.

"So how did you guess? I thought I covered my tracks so carefully."

Red shrugs and reaches for his glass of wine, taking a sip before selecting another bite to feed her. A morsel of hard local sheep's cheese this time, aged to perfection.

"Husband's intuition?" he suggests.

She lids her eyes suggestively at him.

He holds the cheese just out of reach.

"Sure you weren't tempted by more than the science?" he asks. "That's a very elegant dottore, for a research specialist."

Liz strains her neck, reaches up and takes the cheese from his fingers with her tongue. Chews it with a little moan of pleasure.

"He's a pretty kid, I'll grant you that," she responds, opening her mouth wider as he proffers an olive. "But you know me. What I need is a man."

She consumes the olive, then rolls onto her side and presses kisses against him, making it clear that she's more than ready for the next part of the meal.

Red lifts his glass of wine and sips it slowly as she opens his robe wide and proceeds, enjoying the feel of the fine crystal in his newly sensitive grasp.

The clinical trial has been a resounding success. 

The pleasure is almost unbearable. But she knows just when to hesitate, draw back, then advance once again. 

He doesn't know how, or why, she loves him as deeply as he loves her. Wants him with the same passion that drew them helplessly together so many years ago.

But no more than he's ever given her reason to doubt him, than he's ever looked at another woman since she became his bride, he'll never doubt her again.

As long as they both shall live.


End file.
